<p>In <em>The God of San Francisco</em>, James J. Siegel examines queer grief during the onset of the AIDS crisis through a lavender-and-leather pantheon: St. Christopher, Allah, and the God of San Francisco transubstantiate a sarcoma’s cicatrix into sequins, a viral dowry into a benevolent plume of dazzling feathers. From Laramie, Wyoming, to Toledo, Ohio, Siegel performs a magisterial frilling of historical attention, always emerging as “an extraordinary conflagration. A beautiful immolation.” At once an elegiac columbarium and search-and-rescue map for future bliss, <em>The God of San Francisco </em>trills from the Castro Funeral Home to North Beach and back, surmising death as something honeyed and lissome, “eulogies eulogized.” Desire masquerades as “a raven gliding / on the backdrop of midnight” and “Jesus in fishnets, / crossdressing his way through Nazareth,” and desire cedes each poem’s boy, spectral or otherwise, a w